But the Cat Came Back
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A billionaire tycoon, eccentric with age, makes a request that brings back memories for Roarke and Leslie. Follows 'Jenny's Luck'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This is actually a sequel to_ The Guinea Cat_, which was one of my own personal favorites and a lot of fun to write. So was this one! Hope you get a few grins out of it. Thanks again to my faithful reviewer Terry L. Gardner!_

* * *

§ § § -- January 5, 1995

"Come on, Roarke, I wrote you that letter three months ago. Are you really that busy, or just avoiding me?"

Roarke sighed deeply and, uncharacteristically, glanced at the grandfather clock that ticked serenely away near the foyer steps. "As a matter of fact, yes, I'm afraid I am indeed a very busy man. Need I ask what you want?"

The voice on the other end of the phone greeted this unusually curt (for Roarke) inquiry with a loud, rude snort. "I'm sure you don't by now, or else you'd have to be incredibly dense…and I don't think you are. However, I can always change my opinion."

"That would be your prerogative," said Roarke, "but say what you will—my answer remains the same. No."

"It's my fantasy, dammit. I already paid you for it once eleven years ago, in case you forgot that too. Which reminds me…you never paid me back."

"I beg to differ, my dear sir, but my records indicate that I did in fact return your money when I discovered I was unable to grant your fantasy. Perhaps you should check with your own bookkeeper."

"Damn Fielder and his accounting methods. He was the one working for me back in eighty-three, now that I think about it, and I had to fire him. Okay, okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But I'm telling you, I'm going to get this fantasy one way or another. How the hell'm I gonna know what it'll be like when I come back, if you don't help me find out? I'll get a check for fifty grand in the mail tomorrow."

"This fantasy isn't worth fifty thousand dollars," Roarke said, exasperated and trying very hard to conceal it. He was tired, to his own surprise; it had been a long week, and to top things off, Leslie had managed to come down with a heavy cold that had kept her from the traditional New Year's party that he hosted each year in lieu of granting fantasies. It was now Thursday morning and she was still sick in bed; the thought of her brought certain unwelcome memories back to mind and he glanced at the ceiling, hoping she wasn't awake to hear this particular phone call.

"Well, then, is it worth a hundred thousand?" came the prompt response.

"No, it most certainly is not. I must reiterate to you that this is an extremely dangerous fantasy, particularly for someone of your…venerability." Roarke had lost count of the number of these phone calls he'd been getting since October, and had learned to dread the ringing of the telephone, which had led to some odd looks from Leslie whenever she caught his reaction to it.

"Geeeeez, Roarke," moaned the voice. "I really hate that way you have of using elegant euphemisms for everything. We both know I'm old, so you might as well just call me old. And speaking of old—at my age, danger is a relative thing. How about two-fifty?"

"No," said Roarke, rubbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

A gusty sigh relayed a storm of static directly into Roarke's ear, and he pulled the receiver away with a start, giving it an annoyed glare. "You drive a hard bargain, Roarke, but I'll do it. Five hundred thousand dollars—but that's my last offer."

Roarke drew in a breath to argue, but the voice anticipated him. "Enough stalling, for cryin' out loud! I don't care what it takes—grant me the damn fantasy! I'm too old for this! I don't care what you think of me or my methods or motives. I have a right to my fantasy, same as anybody else. So help me, Roarke, if you don't do it, I promise I'll find a way to make you sorry you didn't. If I have to, I'll make a deal with the devil and come back as a rottweiler, so I can bite you on the—"

"_If_ you don't mind…" Roarke broke in through gritted teeth, his tone arctic. "And trust me, you truly do not want to deal with the devil."

"Then give me my fantasy," shouted the voice.

Pushed beyond even his considerable limits, Roarke gave up at last. "Very well, you shall have it—but I insist upon imposing certain conditions. First and foremost, I will not assume any liability if something untoward should happen. If it does, you will bear the entire responsibility and you will be obligated to pay whatever costs may be incurred in the course of your fantasy."

"Fair enough. What else?"

"You will refrain from bringing about any lawsuits of any type whatsoever, for any reason whatsoever, no matter how justified you may think you are. I remind you that you and you alone have insisted—quite vocally, I might add—on the realization of this fantasy, in spite of the numerous and repeated warnings I have given you. Therefore, you are hereby informed that you are considered to be going into this with open eyes and full knowledge of everything that may go wrong."

"Okay, that's fine too. Anything else?"

Roarke raised his eyebrows in some surprise, but continued anyway. "Thirdly and lastly, you will never again ask me for another fantasy."

"Are you saying I'm barred from ever again having a fantasy? Now wait just a minute here, Roarke! You can't—"

"I can and I am," Roarke cut him off. "That's one of my conditions. Either you accept them all, or none of them—in which case I'll again deny you your fantasy, and you're right back where you began. That is _my_ last offer."

A couple of muttered curses floated across the phone line and Roarke waited, stony-faced and implacable. Finally the answer came. "All right, all right. I'll agree to that one too. But I don't have to like it."

"That isn't necessary," Roarke said dryly. "You need only accept it."

"Then consider it accepted. Now, when can I come over there and do it?"

Convinced he would regret this sooner or later, Roarke opened his date book and, to his dismay, discovered an unexpected empty slot for January 21. _Perhaps it's better simply to get it over with, once and for all._ "Very well…how about the twenty-first of this month?"

"Sold! You'll get five hundred grand by overnight courier, and I want the best of everything, got me? I hear that Japanese chef of yours is gifted as hell. Tell him to have plenty of sushi ready." The voice let out a hearty laugh that sounded like a castrated moose with bronchitis. "See ya then, Roarke, and thanks." A loud click snapped down the line.

Roarke put the receiver back on the hook, made a reluctant notation in the date book, and rested his head in his hands. _"Más vale saber que haber,"_ he murmured, feeling drained.

"Did you say something, Mr. Roarke?" asked a voice, and he looked up to see Mariki standing just at the top of the foyer steps, having come from the kitchen with a tray.

Roarke shrugged. "I was merely making an observation," he said. "Do you need something, or is that tray for Leslie?"

"I was just about to take it up to her," Mariki said. "Poor girl, she's simply miserable. I've never seen anyone so ill before. Wonder if she'll be in any shape to go back to work this weekend? She was so upset about missing the party last weekend, she's been medicating herself into oblivion. Every time I try to take her some chicken soup, she's asleep from some cold medicine or another."

"Perhaps that's as well," Roarke said. "If it's no trouble, you might set some of that soup aside for me as well."

"Of course, sir," Mariki agreed and headed up the stairs, leaving Roarke to contemplate the sure disaster he was facing in just over two weeks' time. Almost more than the granting of the fantasy, he dreaded telling Leslie about it.

§ § § -- January 21, 1995

Roarke very carefully controlled his expression as the old man stumped down the plane dock, leaning on a cane and stopping to scold a native girl who tried to hand him a drink, shaking his finger at her. Leslie, fully recovered from her cold, joked, "Who've we got here, Methuselah?"

"Not quite," Roarke said, "but there are those who have wondered whether he is trying to reach Methuselah's great age." He looked at her in surprise. "Are you saying that you don't recognize him?"

"Am I supposed to?" Leslie asked blankly.

"Well, perhaps not; he has been out of the public eye for nearly a decade," Roarke conceded. "You are looking at Mr. J. Anderson Rollins, the Aspen ski tycoon."

He braced himself when he saw her expression change; she turned to him and asked ominously, "Do I dare ask what his fantasy is, or do I already know?"

Roarke sighed. "Unfortunately, my child, you do indeed. As you undoubtedly suspect, his fantasy is to become a cat for one weekend."

She shook her head in disbelief and stared at Rollins, trying to stuff a raft of unpleasant recollections back in the dark recesses of her mind where she'd originally buried them. "I thought you told him that was too risky," she protested.

"I did, a great many times," Roarke said, scowling. "As a matter of fact, I received his request for this fantasy as far back as last October; and when I turned him down, he somehow obtained the telephone number at the main house and began repeatedly calling me, badgering me endlessly to grant his fantasy. He was so persistent that I am afraid he wore down my defenses."

"Oh, Father!" she groaned, as if very disappointed in him. "You let that crazy old coot talk you into it?" She eyed him sternly. "How much did he pay you?"

Roarke retaliated with a disapproving stare. "How unusually crass of you, Leslie Susan." She wouldn't relent, so he gave in and said, "Five hundred thousand dollars."

Leslie sighed heavily and returned her gaze to the old man, shaking her head slowly before suddenly letting out a resigned laugh. "All I can say is, he deserves whatever he gets, if he doesn't know enough to listen to reason."

Again Roarke murmured, _"Más vale saber que haber."_ This time, when Leslie stared at him without comprehension, he translated wryly: "It's better to be wise than to be rich."

"You can say that again," she agreed, rolling her eyes.

Roarke accepted his drink from the native girl who brought it and raised it. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!" He willingly toasted the grizzled old sea captain from Maine, but his entire expression seemed to curdle when he lifted his glass to J. Anderson Rollins. Rollins smirked back unrepentantly.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 21, 1995

"Now that you are here," Roarke said, regarding Rollins from behind his desk, "perhaps you would be so kind as to explain to me precisely why you are so determined to see your fantasy brought to life."

"Yeah…I'd be interested in that myself," agreed Leslie, standing beside his chair with her hands clasped behind her back. Both she and Roarke wore dubious looks.

Rollins shrugged and settled into one of the leather chairs. "Don't see why not. It just so happens, to begin with, that I strongly believe in reincarnation. There's something to the idea about coming back and living an entirely different life. The group I belong to feels that you can choose what you want to be when you return. Well, me…I decided I want to be a cat in my next life."

"And you can't wait till then, is that it?" Leslie asked. She kept her gaze on Rollins, but that didn't mean she wasn't aware of the glance Roarke tossed in her direction.

Rollins frowned. "Don't misunderstand me, missy, I'm in no particular hurry to die," he said. "But I'm curious. Someone in my group says their dear departed auntie has come home to roost—literally, as I understand it, since the auntie in question is now a parrot."

Leslie nodded, trying hard not to grin but not quite succeeding. Roarke gave her another look, this one a little sharper than the first. "Suppose you don't get to choose?" she asked curiously.

"Then I hope I come back as a rottweiler," Rollins retorted, glaring at Roarke, who shot a quick, exasperated glance out the open French shutters. Leslie observed this byplay with surprise, certain there was an inside joke she was missing, but deciding to let it pass.

"Mr. Rollins, I can still refuse you your fantasy," Roarke warned.

"Oh no you can't, Roarke, not after you cashed my check and made me agree to all those conditions," Rollins barked, half rising from his chair with indignation. "You're bound to do it now. You promised."

"It was an entirely verbal agreement, and there would be no problem whatsoever with returning your money," Roarke said, settling back in his chair. "However…since you are clearly determined to see this through, there is no point in my wasting ten days of work. Leslie, please bring me the decanter on the tea table there."

"You mean…you're really going to let him do it?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, I am," Roarke said grimly.

Rollins gave her a perplexed, impatient stare. "You got a problem with it, missy?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Leslie told him spiritedly. "You're going to regret this, Mr. Rollins, make no mistake."

"Is that so? Listen, missy, Roarke here wasted plenty of time and breath trying to tell me what a lousy idea this was and how dangerous it's supposed to be, particularly to somebody of my…_venerability."_ This word came out loaded with venom and aimed squarely at Roarke, who eyed the ceiling, mouth quirking to one side. "Dammit, I can't understand this ridiculous fuss. I'm just asking for a trial run, to see what I can expect in the next life."

"Hairballs, that's what," muttered Leslie. This time Roarke gave her a very dirty look, at the same moment that Rollins leaned forward.

"What was that, missy? Speak up," the old man commanded.

Faced with Roarke's warning glare, she backed down and shook her head. "Nothing, Mr. Rollins. I think I'll go get that decanter now." She sidled hastily out from behind the desk and crossed the room to the tea table.

Rollins planted his cane on the floor in front of him with a loud thud and rested both hands atop it, scowling at Roarke. "First you, now that impudent daughter of yours. Either one of you ever heard the old saying, 'the customer is always right'?"

"We are merely operating with your best interests in mind, Mr. Rollins," Roarke said.

"Best interests, my butt," Rollins snorted. "You just don't want me to have my fantasy for some benighted reason. You accepted my money quick enough, Roarke, and obviously you went so far as to come up with some way to turn me into a cat like I want." He watched Leslie return to the desk, carrying the glass decanter filled with an unappetizing-looking mud-colored substance. Both he and Roarke noticed that she held it out as far in front of her as she could stretch her arms, a look of revulsion on her face. Roarke eyed her as she set it on the desk, but said nothing, even when she met his raised-eyebrow stare with a narrow-eyed look that spoke volumes.

Roarke quelled a sigh before it could escape and opened a drawer, removing a vial and pulling the stopper out of the decanter. "You should be aware, Mr. Rollins, that any potion can only approximate the true state of being; and the effects are not entirely predictable," he said, pouring a quantity of the stuff into the vial as he spoke. "For that matter, you may have no memory of this entire experience." He looked up at that, as if visited with a revelation, and inquired almost hopefully, "Does that change your decision about this fantasy?"

"Not a whit," Rollins told him. "Quit trying to discourage me and get on with it."

"But if you can't remember anything about it after it's over," Leslie put in, "there'll be no point in living out the fantasy in the first place."

Finally Rollins had had it. "What the hell is it with you two?" he yelled. "Don't bother answering me, Roarke, I've heard more than enough out of you." He pointed at Leslie. "Your father's given me about six hundred reasons not to do this. Since you're obviously dying to put in your two cents, go ahead and add to his list."

"For your information," Leslie told him, "I myself have been through this. When Father tried to put this potion together the first time you asked for it, he needed a test subject—and I was the unlucky victim." She caught Roarke's look and said, "Oh, all right, guinea pig. Or maybe guinea cat. Whatever. In any case, Mr. Rollins, I spent one entire night as a cat—so I'm told. I don't remember anything about actually being a cat, but I do recall the aftermath. And believe me, it wasn't pretty. You won't listen to Father, but since I have firsthand experience, you might consider listening to me."

Rollins studied her, looking honestly impressed. "You did this?"

"Under extreme duress," Leslie quantified direly. "For the life of me, I can't figure out why you'd actually choose to do it. If you don't believe me, you won't believe anybody."

Rollins exploded with his loud, bronchially-disadvantaged-moose laugh, making Roarke wince and Leslie stare at him. "That was just the test version, missy. Since I'm paying for this—and very handsomely at that—I'm sure Roarke worked very hard on his potion there to make sure my experience would be much more satisfying than yours." He squinted meaningfully at Roarke. "So I'll not only remember being a cat, but I'll enjoy the living daylights out of it, and it'll be the best experience of my life. Right, Roarke?"

Roarke only raised an eyebrow before pushing the stopper back into the decanter and slowly extending the vial across the desk at Rollins. "Before you drink this, Mr. Rollins, one final word," he said with deliberation. "Since, as Leslie has just explained, she has prior experience with the potion, she will be in charge of your fantasy. If you have a problem, you should consult her." Leslie stared at him incredulously; but before she could comment, Rollins grabbed the vial from Roarke's hand.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the old man growled impatiently. "No more stalling."

"Mr. Rollins, you'd better stand up," Leslie said through a loud sigh.

"And you'd better close the shutters, Leslie," Roarke advised. She shrugged with resignation and went to do so.

Rollins cursed but arose anyway, and for good measure moved into the middle of the room, leaning on his cane. "That make you happy?" he snapped. "Enough's enough. Bottoms up." So saying, he drained the contents of the vial.

Roarke watched dispassionately; Leslie cringed when the vial fell out of Rollins' hand and his eyes bugged out to a grotesque extent. Thick dark-brown smoke materialized from thin air and enshrouded Rollins from head to toe; then there was a very odd little popping noise that echoed slightly off the walls and ceiling. The cane fell to the floor and the smoke dissipated, revealing a pure white Balinese cat with greenish-gray eyes. The cat immediately opened its mouth and emitted a loud wail of a meow.

Leslie laughed. "Well, this one's not afraid to express its opinion." She turned to Roarke and in spite of herself asked, "Is that what happened to me when I…?"

Roarke smiled. "Yes, exactly as it happened to Mr. Rollins, except that you turned out to be a Siamese. A very skittish one at that."

"Skittish?" Leslie repeated, easing toward the cat so she could pick up the cane.

"Yes—once you had changed form, you were extremely frightened. Perhaps if Lawrence hadn't been so heavy-handed in his attempted treatment of you…" He shook his head. "In any case, you fled the house much faster than we could chase you, and as a result, you were out all night in a thunderstorm."

"Oh, beautiful," groaned Leslie. The cat meowed again and she stooped, lifting it into her arms and stroking its soft fur. "By the way…it's one thing to put me in charge of Mr. Rollins' fantasy, but it's another thing entirely to tell him to consult me if there's a problem. Just how do you expect him to communicate that to me? He's a cat!"

The cat lifted its head and looked at Roarke, meowing loud and long; Roarke raised his eyebrows again and then looked at Leslie. "You have already seen that he's a complainer. Right now he needs to be fed, so I suggest you do so…and he requests sushi."

She stared at him, looked at the cat which meowed at her, then back to Roarke, and finally demanded, "Are you telling me he just now said this, and you understood him?"

"Are you telling me you don't?" Roarke asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yes, I am," she said, rolling her eyes. "Father, this may come as a shock to you, but not everybody can be Dr. Doolittle. And this character has expensive tastes. I hope Chef Miyamoto doesn't laugh me out of the hotel when I ask him for a plateful of sushi."

"RRRR-ooowwwww!" the cat interjected, and automatically Leslie looked at Roarke for a translation. Roarke sighed.

"He wishes a supply of sushi for the entire weekend," he said.

"In his dreams," Leslie scoffed, disgusted. "I'll indulge him this once, but after he has his plateful, I'm taking him to Tabitha's. If he really wants to experience life as a feline, then he better learn just how the feline world operates." She came to the desk and removed a set of keys from the gold box thereupon, while the cat meowed indignantly at her. She ignored him till she'd gotten to the foyer, at which point she scolded, "Knock it off. Tabitha's a cat person and you'll be very comfortable at her house—and she has three cats already, so you'll have friends."

"I thought you said you couldn't understand him," Roarke said, puzzled.

Leslie stopped long enough to eye him ironically and drawl, "Lucky guess." So saying, she carried the cat out the door. Roarke sighed and shook his head, grinned in spite of himself, and found his ledger underneath a small stack of letters. He needed something mundane to get his mind off crazier things.

Leslie found herself talking to the cat all the way to the hotel; it began with the animal struggling in her arms while she climbed into the car. "Listen, you, you're just going to have to learn to like this. Do you want me to find a cat carrier and really confine you?" Claws dug into her arm in response. "Ow, blast it! Then in that case, shut up and count your blessings." She put the cat on the seat beside her and started up the Main House Lane. "You realize this could have been a lot worse. You could've wound up as a stray, begging for food all over the island, fending for yourself…you might be stuck hunting and eating mice." The cat hissed at her. "That's what I thought. I hope Tabitha can handle you—you must be the most demanding animal I've ever seen. Spoiled rotten. Sushi, for crying out loud! Just because you paid Father half a million for this ridiculous fantasy of yours, you think you can demand anything you want. You're a piece of work, all right. Okay, here we are. If Chef Miyamoto's willing, then you better enjoy the heck out of that sushi, because that's the last time you're having it this weekend. Come on, Rollie." She parked, lifted the cat into her arms and carried it into the hotel, through the lobby and dining room.

A waiter busing the last two or three breakfast tables caught sight of her. "Uh, I'm sorry, Miss Leslie, but we don't allow cats in the dining area…"

"I know, Jack, but I need to speak with Chef Miyamoto," she said.

"But he's…" Jack began.

Leslie fixed him with a sharp stare that suggested he was forgetting his place. "This cat is a guest of ours, and he's being treated accordingly," she informed him regally. The cat meowed at him as if to second the statement.

Jack stared at her. "Huh?"

Just then the kitchen door opened and Chef Kazuo Miyamoto emerged from the kitchen, stopping in surprise. "Good morning, Miss Leslie! Something I can do for you?"

She nodded. "I realize this is going to come as something of a surprise, not to mention an inconvenience." She shot the cat a black look. "But my feline friend here has requested a plate of sushi, and we thought we'd indulge him just this once."

"Oh," said Chef Miyamoto, studying the cat and grinning. "Hey, he's a really nice one. New pet, I take it? What's his name?"

"Rollie," said Leslie. "He's a Balinese."

"My mother has a cat that looks just like this guy," Chef Miyamoto said admiringly, gently scratching the cat between the ears with two fingers. The cat purred loudly, eyes shrinking to contented slits. "They're wonderful companions. Okay then, one plate of sushi coming right up. I'll be just a few minutes—I have some set aside for tonight's luau, actually." He returned to the kitchen.

"I hope you're happy now," Leslie told the cat, which ignored her and continued purring after the departed chef. She heard the waiter snicker and gave him a pointed look that sent him scurrying back to his job.

In a few minutes Rollie was dining blissfully away on sushi and Leslie and the chef were watching, both highly amused. "So he's a new pet, is he?" Chef Miyamoto asked.

Leslie shook her head. "No, I'm…uh, watching him for a friend. He's going home on Monday morning."

"Ah, I see. Seems this friend of yours must really spoil him, if he's partial to sushi." Chef Miyamoto laughed. "I think this is the first time I ever fed sushi to a cat. Tell your friend not to make a habit of it, though. Good heavens, you'd think he was starving." Rollie had just finished the plate and was licking his paws, eyes slitted with bliss.

"Well, that ought to keep him happy for awhile," Leslie said, lifting the cat into her arms. "Thank you so much, Chef. I really appreciate this, and I hope it wasn't a lot of trouble…but this guy wanted sushi."

"I have plenty of time to make more," the chef assured her. "I hope to see you and Mr. Roarke at the luau tonight."

"We'll be there," Leslie said and smiled. "Thanks again, and see you later."

She drove down to the fishing village, on whose outskirts Tabitha had a tiny two-room cottage to herself. She was out front watering a rosebush when Leslie pulled up, and looked up and waved in welcome. "Hi, Leslie! What brings you down here on a Saturday?"

"A favor," said Leslie, gathering Rollie into her arms and coming around the front of the car. Tabitha lit up at sight of the cat and set down her watering can. "This is Rollie."

"Oh, he's beautiful! A Balinese, right? What a handsome boy you are!" she exclaimed, readily accepting him from Leslie. Rollie purred loudly in agreement at her accolades, and Leslie rolled her eyes to herself. "Where'd you get him?"

"Someone left him with Father and me for the weekend," Leslie improvised. "They'll be back for him on Monday, but in the meantime, we're really not equipped to keep a cat in the main house. I thought he'd be better off down here, where he'll have company, as long as your cats don't mind a visitor. I know it's an imposition, but I'm afraid we're desperate."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Tabitha said cheerfully. "Any special requests?"

"He's already had enough of those," Leslie muttered, scowling at Rollie. "Spoiled-rotten cat. He just polished off a plate of sushi, and that's all the special treatment he's getting, unless you're inclined to spoil him some more. But there _is_ one thing…whatever you do, don't give him any catnip."

Tabitha eyed her curiously. "Oh…okay, if you insist. Actually, you're in luck—I ran out the other day and I haven't gotten around to getting any more. Although Cleo's probably got a hidden stash somewhere—she's always squirreling things away from the others."

"Oh, well, I hope she's got it very well hidden," Leslie said. "He absolutely can't have any catnip. Owner's orders. Look, thanks so much for taking him in tonight. I really appreciate it. Let me know when you have a free minute or two and I'll treat you to lunch at the hotel, okay?"

"If I can bring Fernando, you have a deal," Tabitha said with a shy grin, eyes sparkling with delight. "You won't believe this…but he and I have been seeing each other romantically. I never thought I'd fall in love with my best friend, but it's been getting better every day. It's just hard to keep it a secret from everyone else, and I needed to tell someone."

"You lucky thing," said Leslie, lighting up. "Well, for heaven's sake, if you two are so happy together, why hide it? Tell the world! The others'll kill you for not saying anything. Myeko'll probably want to put it in her newspaper column."

"That's what worries me," Tabitha kidded, and they both laughed. "Okay, then, I'll watch Rollie for you. When will you pick him up?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," Leslie said. "I should be here around three or so. Rollie, you better behave yourself, you understand?" Rollie gave her an insolent look and snuggled into Tabitha's arms, purring like a machine. Leslie sighed and grinned wearily at Tabitha. "Thanks again, and good luck."

"See you tomorrow," Tabitha said and watched Leslie's car retreating till it was swallowed by trees at a bend in the Ring Road. "Well, Rollie, let's introduce you to your temporary roommates."

Inside the cottage, she peered into an enormous feline jungle gym. "Okay, you three, come meet our guest for the weekend." Rollie squirmed in her arms and she set him atop the gym's highest point. Undoubtedly sensing the presence of a strange cat, three more feline heads popped out of assorted openings in the structure, and Tabitha smiled at the silver Egyptian Mau. "Cleo…I hope you don't have any catnip tucked away. If you do, better keep a sharp eye on it." Cleo meowed at her and she grinned, turning her attention to the amber-eyed cat with a short, glossy dark-gray coat, of a breed called Chartreux. "Hi, Copper. And there you are, Rusty." This last was directed at a Norwegian Forest cat, white shading to reddish. "Guys, this is Rollie. He's a guest for the weekend, so make him feel welcome." She went off to the kitchen, really little more than a galley-sized alcove at the end of the room, to refill her watering can.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- January 21, 1995

Rollins' primarily feline brain still retained a few elementally human characteristics; so he had a unique perspective on the experience of existence as a cat. While he couldn't process thought in the manner of a human, he was well aware of everything that went on around him and was able to file it away in his memory for later. Moreover, he fully understood human speech, even if he couldn't exactly talk back. He suffered the inquisitive attentions of Tabitha's three cats, working meantime on Leslie's remarks about catnip. What on earth was that young woman trying to do to him, anyway? What kind of life could a cat have if it wasn't allowed catnip? It was clear that these three cats had access to the stuff, and one thing he had hoped to learn over the weekend was just what it was about it that made a cat go so batty. If Cleo, the elegant black-spotted silver cat now regarding him with suspicion, really did have some hidden somewhere, then he was just going to have to find it somehow. If he could make friends with Cleo, she might even share it with him.

Cleo, Rusty and Copper seemed to accept him easily enough, but Cleo turned out to be more standoffish than her two companions, which rankled him. She rebuffed his friendly overtures enough times that he grew discouraged and decided he'd just have to look for her stash on his own. But he'd have to bide his time. At the moment he just wanted to sleep. Once it got dark, he could start a proper search.

Tabitha had a date with Fernando that evening, and she made sure to leave plenty of dry cat food and fresh water before stepping out front to meet him when he pulled up in a secondhand jeep, purchased from Roarke and repainted bright green so as to be easily distinguishable as the doctor's vehicle. Rollie watched her cross her tiny plot of grass toward the jeep and slip into the passenger seat; his vision, excellent in the dimming light, had no trouble picking out the young couple as they kissed each other before Fernando put the jeep in gear and pulled away from the cottage. This night vision was something else all right, a wonderful benefit of being a cat. He should have no trouble finding Cleo's catnip; it was just a matter of locating the stuff.

When Tabitha returned home four hours later, he lay low till she had gone to sleep for the night; then he peered in the direction of the kitchen, where Rusty and Cleo were both indulging a craving for a midnight snack. He himself was pretty hungry, but the smell of the dry cat food was highly unappealing. Didn't the woman ever feed her cats any tuna, for heaven's sake? Right now tuna sounded absolutely heavenly, and he crouched atop the cat gym salivating at the very idea before realizing that it wasn't going to simply materialize in front of him. That morning's sushi was now only a pleasant memory, but the thought of it was even more tantalizing than that of tuna; so he decided he was better off concentrating on getting hold of that catnip.

He leaped gracefully off the top of the cat gym and prowled the cottage, bypassing Copper on her way toward the kitchen for a quick bite of her own, and hunted through the cottage till he discovered something that looked like a pet bed in the corner of Tabitha's bedroom. Cautiously he padded over and sniffed delicately at it; recognizing Cleo's scent, he stepped in and began to poke around with his paws, overturning a few cat toys that lay inside, sniffing carefully around the edges of the cushion, even prodding between the cushion and the low walls of the pet bed with one paw. He all but ripped the cushion cover with his claws before finally concluding that not only was Tabitha out of catnip, so was Cleo.

There was a sudden warning hiss from behind him and he realized he'd been caught red-handed (or was that red-pawed?). Very slowly he twisted his head and peered over his left front haunch, and sure enough, there was Cleo, crouched half under the bed, glaring at him and poised to leap. She hissed again, baring her teeth. In the bed, Tabitha stirred in her sleep and murmured something unintelligible.

Rollie decided, in his primitive feline way, that it would be prudent to beat a retreat, and gathered his back legs beneath him before leaping out of Cleo's bed. It wasn't soon enough for Cleo, who promptly leaped after him, landed neatly on top of him and made him let out a startled yowl.

Shocked awake, Tabitha bolted upright in bed and snapped on the lamp, staring wide-eyed at the two cats wrestling on the floor. "Cleo! Rollie! What's going on?" She jumped out of the bed and grabbed a small water pistol off a bookshelf, squirting both cats with it. Cleo broke away from Rollie and bounded out of the room; Rollie, indignant, shook himself hard and began to meow in protest at Tabitha. "Good grief, you're talkative," she commented. "I don't know what you were looking for, but Cleo's very territorial. I guess that'll teach you, huh?" She yawned and replaced the water pistol on the shelf. "Why don't you let me get some sleep if you have to prowl around like the others?"

But Rollie had had enough feline company for one night and decided he was safer in this room; so he hopped onto Tabitha's bed and went so far as to snuggle up right underneath her chin. She chuckled resignedly and allowed him to stay, to his delight; soon he had lulled her to sleep with his energetic purring. He himself fell asleep doing it.

§ § § -- January 22, 1995

The other cats seemed content with their dry food on Sunday morning, but Rollie wasn't having any of it and meowed at Tabitha from atop the counter where she was trying to prepare her own breakfast. It didn't take her long to grow annoyed with him. "Look, I have to eat too. Sorry, but I don't have any sushi in the house, and I'm not going over to the hotel just to pamper you. I think I'm going to have Leslie buy Fernando and me both the most expensive dinner they have over there, since you're turning out to be such a pest." She lifted Rollie off the counter and set him firmly on the floor. "There's breakfast. Eat."

He was so hungry by now that he was driven to go over and sample a nugget of the dry food; fortunately, Rusty had had his fill and Rollie was able to nip a bit out of his dish. The thing tasted even worse than he'd imagined, and he spat it out again, hissing at it for good measure. Cleo hissed back at him, and both cats flattened their ears at each other.

Tabitha said something short and sharp in her native Náhuatl. "What's the matter with you two? All right, Rollie, all right…wait just another minute." She sighed in exasperation and peered in the refrigerator till she finally unearthed a can of tuna. "I can't believe I have this—I hate tuna. Well, now it's yours." She opened the can and dumped the contents onto a saucer, from which she had barely turned away to throw out the empty can before Rollie leaped eagerly onto the counter and dug right in. It was the best thing he had ever tasted in his life, either human or feline, and he savored every bite.

Once he'd finished, his one-track mind zeroed in on the catnip issue again. By then the other cats had finished their own food and gone on to other pursuits, while Tabitha washed the breakfast dishes. She whisked the saucer out from under his nose and added it to the soapy water in the sink, pausing long enough to say, "Shoo, you spoiled thing, you. Wait till I tell Leslie how badly you've been behaving." Rollie meowed in protest at her: all he wanted was some catnip! But she only shook her head and continued washing dishes.

Rollie concluded that the only way he'd ever get any catnip was to get out of this house altogether. To that end, he began to watch for a chance to escape. It wasn't too long in coming. Tabitha stacked the wet dishes in a rack in the sink to drip dry and wiped her hands with a towel, then went out to the living room, where Rusty was sitting patiently beside the door. "Have to go out, do you?" Tabitha said indulgently. Rollie's ears perked up, and he leaped off the counter and streaked across the room with perfect timing. Just as Tabitha opened the door for Rusty, he himself reached it and slipped through right after the Norwegian Forest cat, zipping past him and straight out of the yard.

"Rollie, get back here!" Tabitha shouted, but Rollie kept right on going. He'd seen where the red station wagon had gone the previous morning and knew all he had to do was follow the Ring Road; sooner or later he'd get back to the main house.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Well, look, if you can't get over there today, then send one of your staff. …No, I wish I could, but there's too much to do around here. Yes, it really is that urgent, believe me. It's my understanding that Chef Miyamoto is planning it for this evening's banquet." Leslie sat at Roarke's desk, pen poised over a pad with a list of items that needed doing that morning, trying to talk someone at the restaurant into going to the pineapple plantation. So absorbed was she in this task that she didn't see the white cat slink into the room through the open shutters. "I'm not quite sure, actually. I think he needs about ten of them, but you'd better double-check with him."

Rollie crept around the perimeter of the room, keeping an eye on Leslie, who was now absently twisting part of the spiral phone cord around one finger. "Oh no," she groaned into the phone. "How shorthanded are you?" Rollie came abreast of the desk, now right behind Leslie, and eyed the open top left drawer, nose as high as he could lift it, sniffing the air delicately. "Well, all right. I guess I'll have to go myself, then. Sorry to bother you…no, that's okay. Thanks anyway." She hung up and reached for another note pad nearby, ripping off the top sheet and scribbling a note to Roarke on it before taking a car key from the gold box and heading out the door.

Rollie eased out from behind the chair and stretched up on his hind legs, trying to see into the open drawer, but he wasn't quite tall enough. He sank back down, gathered himself and leaped atop the desk. Here, he glanced around the room once more before stepping down into the drawer and beginning to paw through the items inside it.

The foyer door opened and Rollie's head shot up; Leslie came back inside, head down, muttering to herself in annoyance about having forgotten something. The cat took a flying leap out of the drawer and zipped under the credenza in the corner, where he crouched as far into the shadows as he could. "Blast it," Leslie was scolding herself, "I'll never learn. I hope that bill of lading is in there…" Rollie peered out from under the credenza as she came around the desk and went through the same drawer he'd just exited at such speed. It took her a couple of minutes to extract the paper she needed; sighing, she checked her list and left again, this time at a run.

Rollie waited till he heard the sound of a car engine in the lane before cautiously emerging from beneath the credenza. He made certain the coast was good and clear before hopping onto the desk and then back into the drawer, where he spent a good five minutes digging under all sorts of receipts, old letters, rubber-banded envelopes, elegant letterhead, extra pens and other office supplies, and even a few forgotten coins from several different countries. Just as he was coming to the conclusion that he wouldn't find what he wanted in there, the phone rang and he instantly popped up to a rigid sitting position in the drawer. It took four rings before the answering machine kicked in.

"Hello, you've reached Mr. Roarke and Leslie," said Leslie's voice in professionally pleasant cadence. "At the moment we aren't able to take your call, but if you'll kindly leave a message, we'll return your call as soon as we can. Thank you!" Rollie meowed at the machine; it clicked, and Tabitha's voice took over, sounding frantic.

"Leslie, I'm so sorry…I don't know what to do. I hope you won't be angry with me, but Rollie got out. He just raced out the front door and disappeared up the road. It looked like he was headed in the direction of your end of the island, so maybe you'll be able to find him…but I feel terrible. If you need me to help look for him, I'll be happy to. Please call me back as soon as you get this message…I don't want your friend getting upset with you because I couldn't handle his crazy cat. I looked all over the place here, but he's just gone. I am _so_ sorry!…" Tabitha hung up on a near sob; Rollie meowed again, a little repentant at sending the poor woman into a frenzy, but mainly relieved he'd gotten out. She couldn't be any kind of decent cat owner if she didn't keep her felines in catnip, he figured.

Abandoning the drawer, he hopped to the floor and headed for the stairs, trotting up and exploring at leisure. He spent about two hours sleeping beneath Leslie's bed before the young housemaid came up to clean the bedrooms; she brought a vacuum cleaner, which woke him up very rudely indeed and sent him tearing out of the room. No catnip up there either, but at least he'd gotten in a nice nap.

From the top of the stairs he peered down into the study, which was still empty; assured of remaining undiscovered, he returned to the first floor and peered through the open doorway of the time-travel room, which this weekend was idle and consequently bare of all trappings. Clearly there was no point looking in there either. He slipped into the foyer and strolled toward the kitchen at leisure.

Within three minutes the door opened and Roarke and Leslie entered at the same time. "…It's just been chaos all morning," Leslie was saying. "Somehow the pineapples Chef Miyamoto needed didn't show up at the hotel, and three waitstaff and the chief cook at the restaurant are out sick today. One of the jeeps broke down; Julie's completely out of those little bath soaps she leaves in her rooms, and she also said she's overbooked for the next four weeks and has no idea what to do about it. Not only her soaps but a fresh shipment of toiletries hasn't shown up. Two vacationers had heart attacks yesterday, and Mateo called here just after you left this morning and said that three out of the group of ten climbers who were scaling Mount Tutumoa this weekend fell off a ledge and they all have broken legs. In fact, one of them broke both legs. And to top it all off, Captain Edmonds' Dante's Inferno fantasy incinerated the interior of the Palm Bungalow. I still can't figure out how that happened." She blew out a breath and met her father's astonished gaze. "This has to have been the most disastrous weekend we've ever had, at least that I can remember."

"Oh, there have been worse," Roarke mused, "but this one certainly ranks in the top ten. However, it appears that everything is well enough in hand, except perhaps for Julie's problems. I thought she knew better than to overbook her rooms." He picked up a stack of mail that lay on the desk and began to thumb through the envelopes. "Please check the telephone messages, if you would, and then we'll take a break for lunch."

"A well-deserved break, if you ask me," Leslie remarked and pushed the playback button on the machine. She and Roarke found themselves staring at each other as they listened to Tabitha's harried message.

When it ended, Leslie slammed her notepad onto the desk. _"Damn_ that stupid cat anyway! Who does he think he is?"

"Leslie," Roarke chided sternly, "don't forget, he's our guest."

Before she could reply, there was a loud crash from the kitchen, the musical tinkling of shattered glass and a collection of screams. Once more father and daughter shared a look, this one startled and alarmed, before they both ran down the hallway to the kitchen.

Mariki and her three assistants were huddled near the refrigerator, still screaming; one was sobbing hysterically. The floor was covered in broken glass and crockery, spilled soup and vegetables, a silver tray, and scattered silverware. And in the middle of the floor, J. Anderson Rollins was rolling gleefully around in a pile of catnip.

"You've got to be kidding!" Leslie burst out.

Roarke took a deep breath and thundered, _"Silence!"_ The screaming and crying stopped; Leslie jumped, badly startled. Even Rollins froze where he lay, and everyone stared at Roarke. "Thank you," said Roarke, clearing his throat and carefully buttoning his suit jacket. "Now, if someone would please attend to this mess…and Leslie, would you assist Mr. Rollins up from the floor, please?"

"I wish I had a picture of this," Leslie said, picking her way through the shards of crystal and porcelain to lend Rollins a hand. Roarke gave the ceiling an exasperated glance and turned to Mariki.

"Exactly what happened in here?" he asked.

"We were getting ready to serve your lunch, Mr. Roarke," Mariki explained a little breathlessly, "and then a white cat came in here. We didn't pay much attention to it, except for Mapuana—you know how much she loves cats. She'd just bought some catnip for her own cat, and she thought she'd give some to this one. And that cat was going simply insane, Mr. Roarke. It practically dived into the package before she had it half open. Then the next thing we knew, the minute that cat touched the catnip, there was the most peculiar noise we ever heard and a lot of oily brown smoke, and when it was gone, there was that old man, lying on his back on the floor and throwing catnip into the air." She clapped a hand over her heart. "Never in my life have I had such a shock, and the girls were terrified!"

"Indeed," Roarke murmured. "I apologize for that…"

Mariki stared at him. "What, sir? But we ruined your lunch! I dropped the tray and now I'll have to start all over again…and oh dear, all these broken dishes and glasses!"

"Never mind, Mariki," Roarke said, sounding decidedly weary. "Leslie and I will just have lunch at the restaurant." He trained an annoyed eye on Rollins, who with Leslie's assistance had regained his feet and was covered with catnip and some of the soup that Mariki had dropped. "Welcome back to humanity, Mr. Rollins," he said dryly.

In the course of getting up, Rollins had discovered he wasn't a cat anymore and now favored Roarke with a jaundiced glare. "You could've told me, Roarke."

"Told you what?" Leslie interjected, energetically scrubbing catnip off her hands at the sink.

"That I wasn't supposed to have any catnip!" Rollins roared, incensed. "All your damn dire warnings, Roarke, and you managed to leave that one out! I'll bet my favorite ski chalet you did that on purpose!"

"I did no such thing," Roarke said, keeping tight control over his voice, which as a result came out sounding a bit strained. "You were so determined to have your fantasy, Mr. Rollins, that you didn't give me a chance to relay that particular news."

Leslie snorted so loudly that they all turned to look at her. "You got sinus troubles, missy?" Rollins demanded.

Leslie glared at him. "Don't give me that malarkey! When I took you down to Tabitha's house, I told her you couldn't have any catnip, and I know you understood me—you had no trouble making out what Father and I were saying yesterday morning right after you took that potion. That effectively served as your warning right there, Mr. Rollins. Moreover, I said it twice. You weren't allowed to have catnip!"

"How was I supposed to know that?" Rollins barked at her. "You never told your friend why I couldn't have it!"

"And what do you think would have happened if I had?" Leslie fired right back. "She doesn't even know the potion exists, and I certainly wasn't going to tell her. Besides, that would've compromised your fantasy, and you'd be complaining even more."

"Leslie, that will do," Roarke broke in sharply, and she subsided with an exasperated huff. "As for you, Mr. Rollins, I have only these final words for you: Curiosity killed the cat."

"Oh, Father," Leslie moaned, shaking her head and covering her face with her hands.

Rollins stared at Roarke and then, incredibly, began to laugh, filling the room with his braying guffaws and scaring Mariki's staff anew. "Yeah, Roarke," he chortled, "you're right about that, in a way. And you, young missy…tell me, is that how you got out of being a cat when you took the potion?"

"Yes," said Leslie warily. "Why?"

"Well, I have better appreciation for what you probably went through. Seems to me the experience didn't agree with you, now, did it?"

"No," said Leslie, "primarily because I'm allergic to catnip—under which circumstance I'm sure you'll understand when I ask you if you'd mind cleaning up your own clothes." She handed Rollins a large wad of paper towels.

The old man hollered with mirth again and accepted them, brushing catnip off himself and sponging off soup. "What rotten luck, eh, Roarke? Well, tell you what, missy…in view of what happened, I'm giving you five grand for your trouble on my behalf. After all, you didn't exactly volunteer for it. And y'know, Roarke, this whole thing really was a lot of fun." He glanced around the kitchen. "Lemme know what this mess cost and I'll reimburse you, seeing as I scared purgatory out of the kitchen help here."

"That's not necessary, Mr. Rollins," said Roarke, composure back in place.

"Sure it is, and don't argue with me. It's the prerogative of an old goat like me to have his way." He chortled to himself, still mopping himself up, and then paused, looking up at Roarke with inspiration on his face. "Old goat…that's it! That's it! To hell with this being-a-cat stuff. I'm gonna come back as a goat!" He beamed at Roarke. "How much'll it cost for you to whip up a goat potion?"

"Far more than you have, Mr. Rollins," Roarke informed him gravely. "I suggest you, uh, quit while you're ahead of the game."

Rollins shrugged. "Yeah, maybe you're right. I hear goats have a really weird diet anyway. Well, there's always the rottweiler…"

"Why don't we take you back to your bungalow so you can freshen up," Roarke said hastily. "Leslie, perhaps you had better call Tabitha and set her mind at ease."

"Oh yeah…you're right," Leslie exclaimed. "Poor thing, she's probably insane by now." She scurried back to the study, giving the mess on the floor a wide berth, and grabbed the phone on Roarke's desk, hastily dialing Tabitha's number. "Hi, Tabitha, it's Leslie."

"Oh my God," cried Tabitha. "You're still talking to me?"

"It's not your fault," Leslie hurriedly assured her. "You did your best. But the cat came back." An old song she remembered from her early childhood suddenly began to float through her head. "He just couldn't stay away," she added whimsically.

"Oh…what a relief," Tabitha exclaimed. "I hope he's all right. Listen, since I let him get away, don't worry about the dinner."

Leslie laughed. "No, I'll still treat you, silly. After what Rollie put you through, you deserve it. Just name the time and place." She and Tabitha worked out a time to meet for dinner, and as she hung up she noticed Roarke and Rollins in the foyer, watching.

"Rollie, huh? You just keep your eye out for a rottweiler," Rollins warned her before Roarke urged him out the door, shooting Leslie a look that said he was utterly at his wits' end. Laughing, Leslie headed back to the kitchen to help Mariki clean up.


End file.
